


Teeth and Tongues and House-Sized Ghosts

by Medalis



Series: A Series of Unfortunate Events, Mostly Related to the Dead and Never-Alive; [1]
Category: DCU (Comics), The Spectre (DC) - Fandom
Genre: Arguably Dubcon, Closeted Character, M/M, Macro/Micro, Way too much exposition for mindless porn, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4759736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medalis/pseuds/Medalis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, in which Jim has some dreams pertaining to size, and he really hopes that his ghost doesn't have access to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teeth and Tongues and House-Sized Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> All I'm good for is porn that goes against my headcanons involving kinks I don't have labeled with poor titles that don't mean anything.

    He never used to recall his dreams.

Nightmares, most certainly. The thick stench of alcohol and a drunken growl permeated each and every night terror, the weight of a pistol in his hands as a huge, lumbering beast crept closer and closer, thick claws reaching for his neck in a crushing snap. Childhood traumas tended to stay with you, after all, pushed away at dawn to return at dusk.

     His dreams have changed since his death, nightmares tinged with swirling green and a force that tears his father apart, and even the most nonsensical of his nighttime thoughts stay with him through breakfast.

   (He wonders, briefly, if his ghost knows of them. The Spectre rarely commented upon his deeply personal matters and, omnipresent as the spirit seemed to be, perhaps the subconscious was beyond his knowledge.)

    (Or, perhaps, his ghost has more tact than he assumes.)

   Sometimes, he dreams in repetition, a lucid awareness manipulating each and every factor. He can wake or continue onward, his father fading into the simple smoke of a recently discovered bar and the long legs of a recently widowed vixen, bile shifting her into something more palatable. A thicker chest, perhaps, square jaw and big, rough hands.

    (He thinks, in these honest and hopeful moments, that he may very well be so far in the closet that he’s tumbled head-first into the snow of Narnia. He always wakes up nervous nonetheless, fearing something from his Old Testament ghost.)

    The lucidness that must accompany vague omnipresence gives him enough awareness to realize his current state. Dreaming, probably in his own bed because his ghost always carts him home, sprawled out on thrift-store sheets that his tired brain seems to be registering as a enormous gloved palm. His ghost's palm, even, pale eyes watching him with all the emptiness of a cheap horror actor in contacts, mouth pulled to the side in a thoughtful, vaguely irritated expression common to his spirit's face.

   He pushes himself up, toes curling in his shoes, peering back up at his ghost with a mirrored expression of general disinterest. A act, certainly, but they've been together long enough that mild acts of cheekiness won't result in him being damned. The Spectre lifts him closer, tilting his palm so they're nearly at eye-level, jaw shifting in the minuscule mannerisms of thoughtful men. It's impossible to see when they're at relatively equal size, his angel's expressions masked by typical annoyance, but here, when he's probably the size of a house, those gentler micro-expressions stand out like black tar on marble.

   A thumb curls around his leg, holding him steady against thick fingers, and he takes that gesture as a implication to make himself comfortable. His ghost's glove is rough, like worn leather or a carpenter's arm, and it's pleasant enough with his clothing acting as a buffer. Warm, really, in ways his Spectre isn't.

  Another hand rises into view, prodding at him with an unusual amount of care. It's uncomfortable nonetheless, like he's some sort of toy or a experiment, and the Spectre's disinterested expression hardly helps. He can't help but squirm, grunting when a finger (claw? His ghost certainly has sharp fingernails...) catches on his holster, pulling it off his shoulder to fall endlessly away. His suspenders snap soon after, caught and torn under the same uncaring talon, and he pushes it away, anger furrowing his brows and making his scar ache.

   His ghost relents, curling his hand into a fist, and, for a brief and more than a little terrified moment, he fears that he'll be crushed like a fly between two palms.

   But his dreams are sweet today, and, instead of characteristic disinterest, his ghost's wide mouth twists at the ends. A smile, he thinks, milky eyes pinching in a expression most unusual. He's confused, of course, soundlessly opening his mouth to enquire, even as his ghost mirrors him and strains his neck, a thick black muscle reaching--

  Oh.

Oh dear.

   His ghost's tongue laps against him, a thin layer of saliva drenching his shirt. It sticks to him like the sweat of a summer day, his legs curling in an effort to stabilize himself. And again, long and leisurely, strong enough to pull his shirt out of his slacks and tug his tie looser. A brief flash of fear draws his eyes to the sharpened fangs lining the edges of his spirit's mouth, serrated teeth as pearly white as the Spectre's skin. They're unnerving, especially after his spirit clearly displayed them to a ophiophobic sinner, his jaw snapping open in a frightful swallow.

   But the Spectre does not tip him into his mouth, his tongue returning to it's rightful place and his enormous fingers curled into the wet fabric of a no-doubt ruined shirt. It tears like tissue, bunching up around his arms, tie desperately trying to hold it up. Irritation flashes again, arms twisting in an effort to keep his shirt decently closed. It leaves him feeling cold, saliva raising goosebumps on his arms. But his ghost has none of that, curling a pinky around his chest and shaking him gently, enough to upset his balance. It works well enough, his fingers digging into unusually soft gloves, spreading his legs and pressing his feet against his spirit's thumb.

   A mistake, he thinks, as a claw deftly unhooked his slacks and split it down the seam. He recoiled and nearly fell, clutching a curled pinky, his protests crumbling into a stuttered gasp when his ghost laps at him again, tongue pinning him to his hand. It curled, tapered and long, enough pressure to interest his penis but not enough to hurt. His spirit must be more in control of his body than he presumed, tapered tip brushing against the stiffening head.

   (His ghost had never cared for these things, Old Testament as he was, and he doubted that he'd care in any other place than here. Sex was something that he assumed he'd have to give up, wasted time better suited to tearing some poor sinner to the coldest depths of hell. Maybe that's why he dreams, just as he did when he was 14 and robbed of any and all possibility to rut off.)

    He squirms, grasping fistfuls of fabric, and his hips stutter upward. He hopes this isn't some sort of test, something that'll judge his worth as a host to heavenly forces, labeling him as some sort of deviant worthy of standing upside down in shit or something. It's a chilling enough thought that his erection softens, brought back upward by yet another lick. He bites his lip in an effort to quiet his pitiful noises, turning his head away from the black muscle lapping at him. He's thankful he no longer needs to breathe, as his ghost's saliva coats him and seeps into his throat, tasting far too much like some sort of veal to be comfortable.

   And yet his cock twitches, straining in his boxers, wet cloth chafing the unprotected head. He struggles again, breath stuttering in his chest, fretful and concerned about possibilities. His ghost's nose nudges his neck, breathing out a sulfur that somehow doesn't make him gag, chin pressing into his thighs. He shifts, hips quirking experimentally into his spirit's mouth, and his Spectre seems... Pleased with him, unusually so.

   His own skin seems to pale, arms unhooking from where they were digging into his ghost's glove, green swirling around his wrist in a comforting gesture, pushing his boxers down. His enormous spirit tugs them and his slacks out of the way with a sharp tooth, biting on his clothing like a actor in a pornographic movie. They disappear off into the same direction his holster went, the vague ground far off, but he-- he can't seem to care.

   His legs spread, braced against the heel of his spirit's palm, and he rocks against his ghost's tongue. His hands grapple for purchase, one on his angel's hooked nose and another balled up around his glove. It feels wonderful, maybe even as good as that then-unknown pleasure of his Spectre taking him as a host. He recognizes it now, the cold grip of catholic guilt keeping his hand off and his experiences nothing worth repeating, wonderful and wonderous. He thinks this is like a strange, mixed up blowjob, but it feels better than it looked like in the rare video he'd borrowed from his more rebellious friends.

   His thoughts stutter, the enormous flat of his ghost's tongue pressing against his testes, the tip curling somewhere deeper, pulling back to rub against his head. It aches, rasping against his scars, steam hissing against his skin. He can't swallow a gasp, a cry, panting against his angel's slowly warming skin, hips rocking against the wet muscle.

   He's not youthful, not in any way. But this is nearly too much, more than he's ever experienced, and he wants it. The journey may be a greater experience than the destination, but his ghost is sending him spiraling upward, the end of the oh-so familiar lit tunnel, encouraging each buck and gasp. And still, through it all, his angel watches him, the endless milky expanse uneasy at the worst of times and beautiful now, knowing in the ways of aliens and spirits, his ghost tilting his head to curl his tongue just so --

     His body gives an almighty jerk, shoving him from dreaming and back into the cold reality of his itchy sheets and lonely apartment, a hand on his own cock and thin strands of sperm staining his pajamas.

    He falls back against his bed, gasping for unneeded air, hands trembling and sticky. He's sweating, profusely and thickly, and he's more of a scrambled mass of confused body parts than a cohesive detective. It takes him a while, who knows how long exactly, to gather himself and wipe his hand off on his probably disgusting pajamas. He curls, boneless and weak, pressing his head into the warm pillows below.

   Brimstone and sulfur fill his nose, a stretch that feels like his arm being pulled to the side, but he doesn't want to look. His ghost is watching, he knows, but hot shame washes over him in a obvious flood of blood. He grabs his sheets and, childishly, pulls them over his head, huddled in sticky fabric. It's silly, certainly, but he's allowed his pettiness.

  His own arm, paler than usual, tugs the sheets off and away. He turns only slightly, narrowed eyes and furrowed brow, irritated at a light that slowly rises in his windows. Briefly, he's glad for these moments of wordless communication between them, because he's certain that he wouldn't be able to fumble his words into anything resembling a sentence. In a hour or so, he’ll blame it on a lack of rum-soaked coffee, and refuse to comment further.

   And hours after that, after he showered the tacky spend away and taken a extra flask to put warm thoughts out of mind, he’ll be working his day away, chewing on unneeded but comforting breakfast as paperwork shuffles itself out of his office. His ghost will be quiet through most of it, watching with all the uninterested judgement of a particularly sour feline, but, perhaps, a tongue may rasp against his cheek, flicking away a flake of breakfast, startling him with a rush of uncomfortable heat and a distant feeling of cruel amusement.

 (What that _means_ , he doesn't know, and maybe he's not ready to consider.)


End file.
